


Where poppies grow

by beautifulwhensarcastic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Peggy knows what she wants, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulwhensarcastic/pseuds/beautifulwhensarcastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night preceding the procedure Steve can't sleep, which leads him to a surprising, touching discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where poppies grow

The soft thud is barely audible. Steve wouldn't have noticed the book falling, not with his damaged hearing, if he hadn't been glancing Peggy's way.

 

The short, dull sound alerts him, sending a rush of fear through his thin limbs - fear of being caught looking at her while he should be sleeping. A dozen apologies and explanations already form in Steve's head, his tongue ready to blurt them out as soon as Agent Carter wakes up and glares at him.

 

He's not sure what would irk her more - the fact that he's watching her, or that he's not sleeping. They all say he has to be rested for the procedure, but he's simply unable to keep his eyes closed. The pounding of his own heart is so loud and strong, that for the first time in his life Steve feels like it's healthy, not small and fragile.

 

The upcoming procedure evokes great excitement and an even stronger fear. Addressing Colonel Phillips' doubts in making a supersoldier out of a shaking, terrified weakling, Steve boldly replied that a person who is aware of possible dangers and chooses to face them is braver than a man stupidly ignoring them.

 

The words left his mouth before Steve could stop himself and for a split second he was sure the Colonel would have him court-martialed in an instant. But the man only grumbled under his breath, leaving Steve with a very pleased doctor Erskine and smirking Agent Carter.

 

The procedure was supposed to have taken place today, but due to an unexpected storm that influenced the surge of electricity in the city, they postponed it for the next day. The waiting only increases Steve's anxiety, making it impossible to catch even an hour of sleep.

 

Curled in a corner beside his bed, with his back leaning against the wall, he has been watching the lightning cutting through the dark ink of the sky. Curved lines stretching down over the city, licking the rooftops. The storm seems to be calming down but sleep still does not seem to be nearing, so Steve switches his attention to the sleeping forms, outlined in the semi-darkness of the room.

 

Doctor Erskine's back is to him, only a few times has the man moved in his sleep, producing low mumbles and snores.

 

Agent Carter- _Peggy_ , Steve reminds himself, is facing him and he finds it nearly impossible to look away. A blush that blotched his whole face, reddening the tips of his ears, had slowly faded with time, but now comes back violently, twice as hot, the moment the book falls from her bed to the floor.

 

Steve clenches his hands, fingers clutching at his scraped, skinny knees, where he has them rested. Expecting Peggy's eyes to snap open and pierce right through him, he holds his breath.

 

Minutes pass and apart from a faint, cute wrinkling of her nose for a second, Peggy doesn't stir.

 

He breathes a sigh of relief.

 

Steve's gaze slowly slides down from her face, tracing the outline of her hand dangling from the edge of the bed, fingertips inches above the floor.

 

Like everything about Peggy, her hands fascinate Steve. Small, seemingly so delicate, but bearing signs of exertion. He's noticed her fingers are a bit crooked, slightly calloused, like the fingers of a person who works a lot. Or fights. Steve is sure it's both, with a distinctive emphasis on the latter. Though keen to curl them in a fist and throw a punch, Peggy's fingers are nimble, slender and - he bets - very skilful. Her fingernails are always perfectly painted.

 

Steve thinks they're red.

 

A thought of those colored nails trailing down his pale skin sneaks into his mind. He imagines her fingers combing through his hair, fingernails scraping at his skull. It sends a surge of warmth, pooling down in his belly, curling his toes.

 

Abruptly, Steve averts his gaze, scolding himself mentally.

 

His eyes find the small, open book on the floor, pages spread out, some of them folded. Slowly, he crouches closer, for once thankful his light weight puts barely any pressure on the wooden boards, avoiding any creaking.

 

The brown paper cover has some stains on it, that on a closer look turn out to be a faded pattern of flowers. Steve's fingertips brush against the thin paper, smoothing down the crumpled pages with care and dedication.

 

He has a great sense of respect towards books. Long months, summed into years, he has spent in bed, devouring volumes, while the world carried on living around him, not even stopping to await his death.

 

Dramatic, one might say. Maybe the stacks of books he's been reading with determination have heightened the dramatic streak within him, as well as deepened his reckless side, depriving Steve of any self-preservation.

 

As he turns the pages, smoothing all the outrageously bent corners, something slips from between the paper layers, lending softly in his lap. Light as a feather. If he hadn’t noticed the flurry, he wouldn't even have felt its presence.

 

Steve looks down at it and sharply inhales, recognizing the delicate item.

 

A single poppy with a slightly curved, thin stem and a crown of paper-thin petals, now pressed into a flimsy fan.

 

Maybe it's too bold to think he knows that flower - it could be one that she had brought from England, safely hidden between the pages. But Steve's heart flips nonetheless, overjoyed, because there's a slim chance it's the one he had given to her not longer than a week ago.

 

The miles of cross-country runs they've put him and other recruits through over the past weeks always have one or two short stop points, during which everyone fights to regain regular breathing and rehydrate. If they haven’t already downed all their water, that is.

 

With his asthma and heart problems, it has always been difficult for Steve to control his ragged breathing. In order to do so, he needs to focus on something other than the echo of doctor's words, predicting his near death.

 

The vast fields they run past don’t really have many points on which Steve can focus. Some weirdly shaped, lightning-stricken trees, an abandoned truck. And a small circle of wild flowers that barely peek above the tall grass.

 

Though unable to recognize colors, Steve has always had a memory for details. And he memorized them all, when he relentlessly drew the flowers and animals from textbooks, over and over again.

 

The moment he noticed the poppies, the urge to bring one for Peggy became stronger than any common sense. He hid the single flower under his uniform jacket, and spent the entire journey back feeling something like its warmth seeping through his chest. He sneaked into the commanding central, a task which turned out to be quite easy, because people didn't pay much attention to his lanky, small form.

 

Despite all the brazen bravery, or stupidity as Bucky called it, to face bullies in narrow alleys and jump on grenades, Steve was petrified of approaching Peggy directly. Definitely not in front of all these people. He had intended on leaving the flower on her desk and disappearing as quickly as possible, but the stem had still been between his fingers when she unexpectedly appeared right in front of him, her shoes almost touching his boots.

 

Steve felt the colour draining from him, then returning full force, reddening his face up to the roots of his hair as he looked up at her like a deer caught in headlights.

 

Back then, he had felt ridiculous for coming to her with one, poor flower, unable to voice his intention. That it had so little to do with 'wooing a dame' and so very much to do with a simple thought of her. Stuttering out a mere "Hello," seemed strenuous enough.

 

The pressed flower hidden in her book suggests that maybe he didn't make a _complete_ fool of himself.

 

Gently, Steve places the poppy back between the pages and closes the book. For a moment he holds it in his hands, absentmindedly stroking its back with his index finger.

 

When he puts the book back on the bed, right next to Peggy's belly, he notices her hand is no longer dangling from the edge. Now curled along with her other hand, it rests under her cheek. Peggy's eyes are half-open, curiously looking at him from beneath her long eyelashes.

 

"Agent Ca-," Steve is startled, his cheeks filling with flaming colour, "I, umm...” He shuts his mouth, trying to tame a splutter of words and form them into something coherent. With a small sigh he finally says the only word he's able to, "Peggy."

 

It's too dark to know for sure, but her lips seem to curl slightly.

 

Peggy's gaze drifts to the book laying beside her and Steve's hand still resting atop it, his fingertips nearly touching her body.

 

Slowly lifting her eyes back to Steve's flushed face, she says quietly, "It's yours, in case you're wondering."

 

Steve knows she means the flower. Mostly. There's a hint of something else hidden behind the words, more vibrant and promising. Evoking a jolt of arousal surging through his body, itching to move his fingers a little closer.

 

He wonders, if he touched her, would she suck in her breath, or arch into his touch?

 

A small, frustrated sigh escapes Steve's lips and he withdraws his hand, curling it into a fist.

 

Though a shy part of him wants to retreat back to his little corner by the bed, he can't make himself do it. They rarely have the time to exchange a few words, much less to be somewhat alone. So Steve slumps down, sitting crosslegged beside Peggy's bed and fixes his eyes on the floor.

 

"It's only one, tiny poppy," he mutters, stubbornly staring at the boards, "You could have... You _should_ have been given better. A beautiful rose, or something."

 

By now he's not even trying to pretend they're talking about flowers and he doubts Peggy is clueless.

 

The bed springs creak when she moves and Steve looks up to find her leaning forward. Hands gripping the edge of the mattress, upper body pushed onward. Peggy's nose is inches from his and he can feel soft puffs of her breath tickling his skin.

 

"Steve," she says firmly, "I don't want roses. I like the poppy."

 

His lips part slightly, a little, surprised "Oh," bubbling out. Then, before he's able to brace himself, Peggy moves even closer, her lips brushing against his.

 

Steve's eyes widen in shock, but as Peggy pushes against him harder he responds eagerly, ready to follow and give her anything she demands.

 

The kiss is short, but hard and resolute. Leaving Steve breathless and flushed, and Peggy very pleased with herself.

 

She smirks at him, when Steve whimpers at the loss of contact, then trenderly traces his puffy lips with her fingertip, sliding it further along his jaw. She cups his chin gently and tilts his head, sealing one more peck onto his mouth.

 

"Rest, Steve," Peggy's voice is soft, but bears an undeniable order, which Steve wouldn't dare to defy.

 

Only he probably will, because now he definitely doesn't feel sleepy. Blood is rushing so fast in his veins, swishing in his head. And as he closes his eyes, images of Peggy's curls spilled all over a bed of poppies fill his mind.

 


End file.
